He Was Simon
by AmazonAuthor
Summary: When he'd pull me into him, he was always reluctant to let me go. A small peck was never enough; plans were delayed, important meetings skipped to satisfy the hunger of Simon Snow.


I love him.

I told myself I did, and I always would.

I hated myself.

I told myself I did, and I always would for loving him.

Simon Snow; what a fucking perfect name. He wasn't perfect though, I knew that better than anyone. He could never control the magic that flowed out of him; he couldn't even control those sandy curls that brushed his forehead. Snow had control over me though, believe it or not. His mouth didn't need to utter a spell or choke out any magical words. All I needed was a look from him. His eyes were never anything special, not sky blue, blue laced with specks of gold or green, not bluer than any ocean. They were just blue. He was just Snow. But when it was just the two of us, he was Simon.

There was nothing special about him. He didn't look like a prophesied saviour; the bloke could hardly pass for a mage. But when I felt his lips on my neck, I found myself gasping for a god, whispering prayers under my breath. Snow didn't live up to his name. Every inch of him was warm; even without his magic pulsing through his being. He lit me like an ember, the sensation burned from my fingertips to the center of my body. He reveled in it; the sight of me falling to ashes before him. That sick git.

When he'd pull me into him, he was always reluctant to let me go. A small peck was never enough; plans were delayed, important meetings skipped to satisfy the hunger of Simon Snow. He always had an appetite; we used the table in the flat frequently. Why let such a nice piece of furniture go to waste? What a crime that would be.

After a long day, I'd find myself traversing the streets of London at night. I always ended up at his door. Knocking was no longer a requirement for me; I had been there many times at this hour. Snow was always in the same place—that little metal stool next to the window—watching the city. He was so damn simple. A quiet approach was dire. I wanted him vulnerable, rendered powerless under my prowl. His neck, pale and exposed—there was never a better place to start. I counted each shiver and every moan. I took pride in the way I could make Simon Snow melt. But it took time.

Sometimes he didn't give in so easy. His hand fumbled with my shirt, trailing marks down my chest with each button he ripped off. The fool never considered how much a good shirt cost nowadays. I supported myself against the wall, accepting all his attacks and firing my own back at him. He had a blind spot, an obvious one. It was that stretch of skin between his ear and his jaw. A small lick there always sent the bloke reeling.

"Baz I-I," he'd choke out.

Use your fucking words, I'd think to myself. He never gave me enough time to think, or even breathe. If he ever gave me a chance or a moment; the probability of me using it to breathe would precisely be zero to none. No, I'd use it to get the upper hand; relinquish him of his shirt and count those freckles scattered like a billion stars across his chest. Count them, kiss them, tease them. What are you doing to me Snow?

The things I do to him; did. I'm not proud of some, I deserve a medal for others. My achievements are many. I don't think anyone else could make him grip the sheets as tightly, breathe as hard. When the moonlight touches him, I get jealous. The beams dance along the plane of his stomach, challenging my fingers to beat them to it. I do, and Snow gasps. It takes everything in me not to rush. I want to torture him slowly, draw out those moans like water from a well. I want him to shatter into a million pieces and not be able to put himself back together. I dip my hand under the waistband of his trousers and claim what is rightfully mine. My lips meet his; his breathing hitches under my strokes. It feels like I'm tuning my violin, plucking the strings one by one, preparing it for the piece I want to play. I want it to make the right sounds; the song must be played according to how it is written. There's nothing written for this occasion, only blurred lines from bodies tangling in the sheets.

I kiss the moles; all of them. It serves as a distraction for him when I slowly ease myself in. I stare down at him, into those ordinary blue eyes. They're nothing like the ocean but I'm still drowning, sinking into him wave after wave. His skin is glistening and I can't resist trailing my tongue down it. He bites my shoulder as though he is the vampire. When it comes to Snow, I don't desire his blood. No, I want more. I want everything.

I collapse in his arm and he strokes my back, the warmth tickling my spine. He'd usually be wearing a grin right now, or his eyes would be fluttering and fighting off slumber. Instead, he stares at me intently, expression unreadable. The idiot. Typical, can never find the words he wants to—

"I love you, Baz."

Oh. Of course.

I don't know why I start crying.

He whispers it again.

I hate myself, but maybe it's not for loving him.

Simon presses his forehead to mine.

Perhaps it's because I get all choked up trying to say it back.

Because I just want him to know.

Simon.


End file.
